Fathers
by vandevere
Summary: Fathers and sons. Sequel/Prequel to "A Cold Case".
1. Chapter 1

Adam Schiff never knew it, but the first time he met Jack McCoy was back in Nineteen Forty-three.

Adam had just turned twenty-three, and was visiting Chicago, to court his beloved Ruth, and to meet her family. That he would win her hand was actually never in doubt.

Ruth's father, Abram Schinkel, became very fond of the young man, already studying Law, and well on his way to becoming a Manhattan attorney.

Adam Schiff often liked to take walks on an early Sunday afternoon; and he enjoyed that Sunday walk here in Chicago as much as the walks in Manhattan.

Church was just letting out; Irish Catholics in their Sunday best, spilling out from towering cathedrals, and out onto wide sidewalks.

One family caught Schiff's attention; the wife keeping one step behind her husband. The man was big, burly, with blue eyes and blondish hair. He held a little boy in his arms, and the child couldn't have been more unlike his father, with jet black hair and dark brown eyes.

"Good afternoon, sir," the man spoke, a touch of Irish lilt in his voice.

"Good afternoon to you too," Schiff replied. "Your son?"

"My Firstborn," the man looked down at the dark-haired boy in his arms, a father's pride in his eyes.

"C'mon, Jack! Say hello to the nice man."

"Hi…" came the shy response; the little boy safe in the comfort of his father's arms.

"Hello there," Adam Schiff grinned back.

"That's quite a boy you have there," he added.

"I know!" immense pride lay in the man's eyes. "He's gonna take the world by storm. Just you wait and see."

"I bet he will," Schiff nodded back.

That was it. A chance meeting in Nineteen Forty-three, and Adam Schiff had no idea how large Jack McCoy would loom in his life all those years later…


	2. Chapter 2

_Manhattan, 1969_

Executive Assistant DA Adam Schiff had a reputation as a fearsome poacher of talent. He had already bagged a Harvard Grad two years back, Ben Stone, and was now setting his sights on some local talent.

NYU had graduated a bumper crop this year, one of whom had graduated eighth in his class.

Even while in Law School, Jack McCoy had built a bit of a reputation for himself, speaking out against the Vietnam War, and protecting the rights of others who protested against the war.

 _The DA's Office needs principled young people like that…_

Roaming around NYU, looking for Graduation Day celebrants, Adam Schiff was on the hunt.

"Lo, the hunter approaches, in search of his prey…"

Schiff turned at the sound of Edgar Hynes' voice.

"Edgar!" Schiff exclaimed. "Tell me you're not out hunting for talent too."

"I can't compete," Hynes said. "I'm not a law firm for the rich and famous, and I'm not the DA's Office either."

 _Not enough money to tempt future Defense attorneys, and he doesn't have the allure of the DA's office to tempt future prosecutors…_

Such was life.

The two old friends grinned at each other, Hynes planning to become a judge, and Adam Schiff intent on becoming Manhattan's next District DA.

"You'll want to nab Jack McCoy," Hynes advised. "Kid's a firecracker."

"I've heard," Schiff spoke dryly. "Also, there's Paul Kopell…"

"Nope," Hynes shook his head. "Kopell wants to play Defense. _Jack's_ the boy you want. Sharp… _very_ sharp."

"Bit of a wiseacre too, I've heard."

"A sin of prosecutors the world over," Hynes eyes were twinkling. "I like him, Adam. You'll like him too."

…..

 _Later that afternoon…_

Adam Schiff finally located Jack McCoy, in a deserted hall, along with two older people, the woman dark haired and hawk-featured, and the man burly and big, with huge hands.

 _Clearly Jack McCoy's parents…_

Adam Schiff hung back, out of sight, waiting until he could make his pitch to the young man.

Jack McCoy took after his mother in looks, hawk-nosed, with dark eyes and jet black hair. He was tall, though, and lean, almost thin.

Schiff couldn't hear what the three were talking about, but the older man apparently didn't like whatever the younger man said.

His eyes darkened with rage; and his hand lashed out, in a vicious cuff to the young man's head.

Jack took it. Meekly, even, with eyes downcast, but Schiff could see the anger seething in the graduate's body language.

"Now, John…" that was the woman, laying a gentle hand on the older man's shoulder, playing peacemaker, her voice a soothing murmur.

Adam Schiff decided to make a silent retreat.

He would talk to Jack McCoy another day, a day less fraught than this one.

And Schiff would never admit to Jack McCoy that he had witnessed John McCoy hitting Jack.

 _The boy doesn't deserve that humiliation…_


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: The Sixth Season episode, "Trophy" is referenced._

 _1988_

"You have the goods on Carlson?" Adam Schiff asked his Executive Assistant DA, Ben Stone.

"Yes," Stone handed the folder of case files over to Schiff. "Think we can make it stick this time."

"Good," Schiff grunted. "Can't let his idiot lawyer make idiots of us all…"

"I'll get right on it," Stone stood, and went back to his own office.

Schiff's office phone rang as Stone left.

"Schiff speaking."

"Adam…"

It was Jack McCoy.

"Jack! How are you, my boy?"

Schiff could hear Diana Hawthorne's voice in the background, apparently talking to a witness for the Polanski Case.

McCoy sighed over the line.

"My old man…I told you he was ill. Cancer?"

"Yes," Schiff said. "How is he?"

"My mom called…"

All of a sudden, Jack sounded very young, very uncertain.

"She says it's…time."

"All right, Jack. Go home. See your father before the…end. I'll see that the case against Polanski goes forward."

"Thank you, Adam. I…I'll call when I get there."

Then he hung up.

…..

 _Mercy Hospital, Chicago_

"Jack!" Rose McCoy's arms enfolded Jack McCoy in a warm embrace, and Jack could have stayed there forever, wrapped in his mother's loving arms.

"Mom…how is he?"

McCoy felt her trembling sigh.

"He's in a bad way, Jack. The doctors say it could happen any time."

"Is he-"

"He's not suffering, dear," his mother's hands still on his shoulders. "They put him on morphine. He's not feeling a thing. He's been waiting to see you."

 _Waiting…_

 _Waiting for his First Born…_

Jack McCoy shivered. He didn't want to see this…didn't want to see his father die…

But John Senior was waiting for him.

So, gathering his courage, Jack McCoy walked into the room where his father lay.

It wasn't a private room. John McCoy's bed had been curtained off, allowing the dying man a little privacy in the last hours of his life.

Jack looked down at the shrunken figure attached to tubes and machines, and it all felt unreal.

 _That's not my old man._

John McCoy had been a big man, towering, and large across chest and shoulders, with huge hands.

The man in the bed was emaciated, skeletal, with tubes up his nose.

"Dad?"

All of a sudden, Jack felt three years old. Terrified at the notion of his father dying, leaving him behind…

"I'm here, Dad…" he couldn't bring his trembling voice above a whisper.

The figure on the bed stirred slightly as Jack drew up a chair, sat by the bed.

McCoy reached out a hand, fingers gently brushing his father's thin hand.

 _I was three, and I used to sit on his hands and throw darts until I got too sleepy…_

John's hand twitched under Jack's fingers.

"Dad?" he whispered again, wanting nothing so much as for his father to wake up and be… _himself_ again.

 _Not this emaciated stranger with no hair, and thin hands…_

His father drew in a struggling breath, let it out in a sigh.

Then…just like that…he was gone.

Jack McCoy sat there, looking down at the body…

The… _dead_ …body of his father.

He bowed his head and wept silently.

…..

 _Two weeks later_

"I'm fine, Adam," Jack McCoy assured Adam Schiff.

Jack, and his two brothers, Joe and Pat, had buried John Senior a week ago, seen to it that John's grieving widow, Rose McCoy, was well taken care of.

Those duties done, Jack McCoy had returned to Manhattan, and his duties as an ADA.

 _Just in time for a truly nasty case…_

Someone was murdering black boys, and their neighborhood was just one step away from complete anarchy over it.

"The killer's got to be a nut," Hawthorne held out a sheet of paper. "He left this note on all of his victims."

Adam Schiff took it, looked at it. Chills iced his veins at what the note said.

 _They must be destroyed._


End file.
